Realize
by shelllessturtle
Summary: To realize is to make real, or to give reality to. When Emily is hurt and trying to be strong, Hotch does what he can to take care of her, and comes to see something in a new light. Hotch/Emily, spoilers for 4x03, "Minimal Loss". Rated T for mild bad language in chapter two.
1. Rain

A/N: So, about a month ago, the dear emilyhotchnerforever asked me to write more Hotch/Emily fic, and I told her that if she wanted it, she would have to prompt me. She took me up on my offer, and gave me this: Hotch/Emily; Romance; Rain, shooting star, and a picture; Hotch realizes that he loves Emily.

It sort of ate my brain. It started out as a cute little oneshot. But then it decided that it wanted more screen-time. Then, in conjunction with my rewatch of Criminal Minds (I am collecting Penelope quotes), the fluff bunnies began to descend, and this has become a universe all its own.

I'd like to thank my sister, LinkLuver3, for her rapid-fire beta of this, for her squeeing over the cute, and for the fic she is writing me. Love you, Neenie!

Without further ado, I present you with chapter one, story one, in a small side-universe that will be devouring me whole over the summer.

Disclaimer: Not mine, worse luck.

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The moment he saw her stumble away from the burning building, he wanted to take her in his arms and never let her go. He told himself that it was just because she was a member of his team, of his family, but a very small part of him was beginning to simply reject that particular sentiment.

Throughout the whole ordeal, he had been so much more worried about Emily than he had been about Reid, and he had had to work hard to seem equally concerned for them. Listening to Cyrus beat her up had been particularly hellish, but at least it had given him an excuse to be more concerned for Emily; Reid was still free, and he could take care of himself.

Now, though, as she stood outside the compound, shouting for Morgan and Reid, she sounded so broken and lost that it was all he could do to stand stoically and keep his distance. When she put her arms around Reid, he felt his heart clench, but he stayed where he was for as long as possible.

When he could no longer stand it, he approached the group and softly said her name. She came to him immediately and did not object when he placed his hand in the small of her back to guide her to the ambulance. He sat by her in silence as an EMT carefully checked her over and, when she was given a clean bill of health—relatively speaking—he guided her in equal silence to one of the SUVs.

"Are you okay?" He hadn't meant to ask it; he didn't like forcing confidences, and he knew that Emily liked to talk about her emotions about as much as he did, but he couldn't stomach the dazed, distant look still on her face.

"I—yeah," Emily replied after a moment. "I'm just…I'm tired, Hotch."

Again, she sounded so broken, so lost, and he just wanted to pull her to him, hold her close, keep her safe, and let her rest. He had no idea if he would have done, because Rossi slid into the back seat at that moment, informing him that Morgan, JJ, and Reid would be following in the other SUV, and that Morgan had called Garcia to let her know that they were all okay.

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He couldn't keep his eyes off her during the flight home. He watched as she sat down just inside his peripheral vision to talk to Reid, as she reassured the younger profiler. He felt tension coil in his stomach as she covered Reid's hand with her own, only for it to release almost immediately as she let go and moved to the couch. She lay down, careful to keep the bruised side of her face up, and in moments she was limp as one could only be in sleep. Her hair had fallen across her features and hidden the discoloration from sight.

His fingertips itched to sweep the hair away from her skin, to soothe, to comfort, to heal the greenish-yellow tinge back to its regular alabaster shade. He clenched the file in his hands a little bit tighter, and tried to apply himself to his paperwork. He could not, however, keep his eyes off of her entirely, and so spent the rest of the trip home stealing glances at the sleeping agent and wondering why he felt so concerned. He barely heard when the pilot informed them that a storm was brewing over Quantico.

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By the time they landed, rain was pouring hard and fast, and the wind had just begun to pick up. Two Bureau SUVs pulled up to the bottom of the staircase; Rossi had thought to call ahead for them so no one would get soaked running for shelter.

They split the same way they had done before; JJ, Reid, and Morgan in the first car, Rossi, Prentiss, and himself in the second. Their driver was much more cautious than the others', so it followed that Reid, Morgan, and JJ were leaving the parking lot in their respective vehicles by the time the second SUV pulled in. Rossi vanished the moment he got out of the car, and the driver was gone just as fast when the other two had exited.

He glanced at Prentiss's face, seeing her eye the storm in apprehension. "Are you going to be up to driving in that?" he asked.

Prentiss bit her lip. "I don't know."

"Let me drive you," he offered immediately, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I can come back and get you tomorrow so you can pick up your car."

"You don't have to do that," she said tentatively, almost shyly.

"It's fine," he replied. "Come on."

He guided her to his car, but she didn't seem any calmer than before as she climbed into the passenger seat. The storm was worse when they exited the parking garage than it had been when they entered it, and it kept getting worse as they drove.

He noticed tension building in Prentiss's body the longer they were out. "Don't like storms?" he asked.

"Not driving in them, no," she replied, "and especially not at night."

He made what he hoped was a sympathetic noise, and the drive continued in silence.

When he finally pulled up in front of her home, she looked out the window and shook her head. "Hotch, you can't drive home in this," she said, worry coloring her tone.

"I'll be fine," he replied, trying to reassure her, simultaneously wanting nothing more than to be alone and safe and away from her so he could find his sanity and to take her up on the implied offer and spend the night surrounded by her existence.

"You can barely see five feet in front of the car, and we're stationary!" she exclaimed. She turned to look in his eyes. "Please, Hotch. I don't want anything to happen to you."

He could hardly bring himself to look away. Her eyes were pleading and full of worry—worry for him, when he was so worried for her—and he couldn't say no to them.

Swallowing hard, he nodded. "Okay."

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A/N2: I would like to inform you that you will not (repeat: will NOT) be getting chapter two until, at the earliest, Thursday. I have three eleven-hour work days ahead of me, and I'm going to be too tired to be posting witty comments in the Author's Notes. However, if it doesn't seem like many people are interested, I may just wait a full week to post the next chapter. In other words, write a review! Tell me that you like it and want more! Who knows? Maybe lots of reviews will give me the energy I need to post sooner!


	2. Picture

A/N: So I decided to be nice and post this chapter before I go away for the weekend. I am going to spend four days on a lake, not thinking about work, hopefully de-stressing, and just being with my Neenie.

That's right. I get to spend this weekend with my little sister. Neenie, who is the only person who doesn't have a God-complex, because she's actually God. Neenie, who declares that Hotch/Emily is almost canon. Neenie, who refers to the stoic, forbidding, badass Aaron Hotchner as "Hotchie". Readers, be completely jealous that I get to spend time with this perfect person. And then read my story. And then review it.

Disclaimer: I may not own Criminal Minds, but my Big has promised to get me a Paget plushie!

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Emily handed him her visitor's pass for her apartment's parking garage, and he swiped it through the machine. The silence that had followed his acquiescence persisted as they stepped into the apartment complex, but it was, like most of their silences, a comfortable silence, one that needn't be filled with useless chatter, because it in itself said enough.

He had only ever been to Em—_Prentiss's_ home once before, but he remembered everything with a strange precision. Nothing had changed since that day, more than a year ago, when he had come to ask for her to return. He found that oddly comforting.

"The bathroom's over there," Prentiss said, pointing. "I'll go get the guest room ready."

She was right; it was late, and they both needed sleep. He took his bag into the bathroom and quickly stripped off his damp suit. Sliding into dry pajamas, he ignored the rest of his nighttime routine for the moment, intent on helping Prentiss get the bed ready.

A light was on down the hallway; hopefully, that was the guest room, and Prentiss was in there. He entered, and took the scene in at a glance. A couch-bed was halfway unfolded, and she was leaning against a wall, her head back, supported by the wall. Her eyes were shut tight, her jaw clenched, her face screwed up in pain; she had pushed her blouse up, and her hand was laid gently against her stomach, which was even more deeply bruised than her face.

"Emily," he breathed. He hadn't known where Cyrus had hurt her, and the position and darkness of these bruises scared him a little.

Her eyes snapped open and she spun on him. "Hotch!" she exclaimed. She looked surprised, but made no effort to move her shirt or cover the bruises. "It's not as bad as it looks?" she tried sheepishly.

"Bullshit," he replied. "You don't bruise easily. What did he do to you?" He had unconsciously moved closer, and was on the brink of reaching out to move her hand so he could get a better look at the injury.

"Kicked me," she answered, sighing. "I think his boots had a reinforced toe." She didn't protest when he placed his hand over hers, and met his gaze steadily.

"You didn't tell the EMT about this," he said, trying hard not to think about what he wanted to do to Cyrus; the bastard was already dead. "You could have a broken rib, or internal bleeding."

She snorted. "Hotch, I know what a broken rib feels like, and you and I _both_ know that I'd be dead already if I were bleeding internally. Now, if you'll let me get back to doing up the bed…"

"No," he said firmly. "You are doing no more than absolutely necessary until you heal. I can make my own bed."

She looked like she was going to argue for a moment, then her shoulders sagged in defeat. "Okay," she said. "The sheets and blankets for the bed are in that closet, and my room is the next one over, if you need anything else."

He smiled softly. "I don't think I will, but thanks for the offer."

She nodded, and turned to the door. He went towards the closet, but a small sound arrested his movements.

"Hotch."

It was barely a whisper; just a breath, really, like the way he had said her name. Her _first_ name.

He turned back to her, and saw her teeth worrying at her lip. She seemed unsure about what to say for a moment, but then there was a split second of defeated shoulder-sagging once more, and she said only, "Thank you."

He fell asleep still wondering what else she had wanted to voice.

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"Hotch! Hotch!"

Her screams woke him as the sky was just beginning to lighten. He exploded from his bed and was throwing open the door before he had even registered moving. When he reached the next door, he didn't even bother knocking; he just threw it open, terrified of what he might find.

She was alone, and still asleep, thrashing violently at a phantom foe her subconscious had brought before her. Immediately, he was at her side and shaking her gently.

"Emily," he called softly. "Emily, wake up."

She was in his arms seconds later, clutching at him and trembling fiercely. He wanted to return the tight embrace, but forced himself to merely place his hands on her back; pressing her into him would just hurt her. It took several minutes for her shaking to subside, by which time he had begun rubbing her back in an effort to soothe her. Her grip loosened, but she didn't let him go.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked softly.

She shook her head. "I—I don't remember much," she replied. The confusion in her voice was sincere. "I just remember…you. You were gone, and…and it was bad." She buried her face in his shoulder, and he restarted the rubbing that had momentarily ceased when she said the dream had been about him.

As he let Emily cling to him, he took the opportunity to look around her room. He told himself that he wasn't profiling her; he was just curious. The walls were lined with bookcases, which were all almost completely full. She had a lot of books on psychology, both criminal and regular, including every single one Rossi had written, but most of her collection consisted of novels and what he suspected were trade volumes of comics. She also had a lot of framed pictures around the room; atop the bookcases, set on her dresser, hung on the walls. They were mostly of members of their team in all sorts of different permutations; there was only one of each of her parents, and the one of her mother looked like it had been newly added.

The one that caught his attention, though, was the only photograph that sat on her bedside table; it was a picture of the two of them, probably the only one of just them, and he knew immediately when it had been taken, though he had never seen it before.

Right after his divorce from Haley, the team had gone out, and Rossi had insisted that he come along. He had, but had at first just sat and watched his team mingle at the bar they had chosen. About midway through his third beer, Prentiss had pulled him out of his chair and onto the dance floor. He remembered not protesting, remembered thinking that they were trying to help him feel better, remembered it beginning to work.

As he looked at the photo, which he figured Garcia had surreptitiously taken, he suddenly realized how happy he looked in it, and he couldn't miss the look of tenderness the camera had caught on Emily's face; a look that was directed at him. And, he realized suddenly, it was being mirrored on the same face, albeit the living, breathing counterpart that wasn't caught forever in a digital image. She had leaned back only moments before, and as her chocolate eyes caught his, he felt his mind and famous self-control surrender to his heart and realize what it had been trying to say.

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A/N2: Psh, of course it ends there! You'll have to wait for the next chapter to find out what happens! And remember, happy authors post quickly, and reviews make authors happy!


	3. Shooting Star

A/N: It was lovely to get back from my trip yesterday and read all the wonderful praise you guys had left in my inbox over the weekend. It gave me the energy I needed to finish up the story. And so here it is. More notes on the continuation of this universe at the end. Enjoy, my ducklings!

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He stayed with her for the rest of the night, the two of them just fading off to sleep at some point with her still in his arms. When he woke, he was met with deep brown eyes that were staring intently at him and beautiful lips stretched into a faint smile.

He had to say something. He knew he had to do; they couldn't just lie there all day, staring at each other, but he couldn't think of anything. Giving it up as hopeless, he just let his mouth run. "I don't understand your hair."

Emily laughed. "It's just hair," she replied, grinning. God, he loved her smile.

"It changes colors," he said by way of trying to explain himself. "But slowly, not as if you dye it, unless you get it dyed a shade darker or lighter every week."

"I might," she replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief. He must have looked surprised, because she laughed again. It was a beautiful noise, and one that he didn't hear enough; none of them laughed enough. "I don't, Hotch," she said, "I promise."

He kissed her then. Afterwards, he would never be able to say why he had chosen that moment, why he hadn't kissed her the night previous when he realized how he felt; it just seemed like the right time. He also couldn't say why he was surprised when she kissed him back, but when, after half a moment of stillness, he felt her return the pressure, he felt a jolt of joy and shock course through his body.

She moved closer, not pressing into him, but initiating full contact along the fronts of their bodies. Her hand slid to the back of his neck as if she wanted to hold him there forever as he splayed his hand across her lower back. He took her bottom lip gently between his teeth, pulled it into his mouth, stroked his tongue across it. She trembled against him, her whole body going tense. Was she nervous, or afraid? Was he going too fast? When she didn't pull away, he began to massage her back gently, and she melted into him, molding her body to his.

With this for encouragement, he released her lip from his teeth and begged entrance to her mouth. She granted it immediately, and as he explored her, found out what made her shudder, what made her sigh, what made her moan, she slid her hand from the back of his neck into his hair. It was all he could do not to flip them, to cover her body with his, to possess her, mark her, claim her as his own; she was hurt, bruised still, and he did not want to make it any worse. When they _did_ let this escalate farther, he didn't want anything to mar the memory of it for her.

Finally, she pulled away, breathing heavily. He wanted to trail kisses down her neck, stop at her pulse point, and leave a mark, but he couldn't stand the thought of another bruise streaked across her skin, even one put there with love. Instead, he blinked slowly, met her deep brown eyes with his own hazel ones, and smiled at the dazed joy he found there.

Suddenly, her stomach growled loudly, and they both started laughing. "Come on," he said, not even trying to wipe the grin from his face. "Let's get food.

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Emily insisted on making the food, but in return, he managed to wheedle out agreement to go to the hospital to make absolutely sure that she was okay. He called Rossi to say that neither of them would be in that day. He explained what had happened (minus, of course, Emily's nightmare and the tonsil tennis), and his plan to take her to the hospital.

Rossi agreed with him completely about the hospital, though he could tell from Rossi's voice that, were the circumstances any less serious, the older man would tease him mercilessly about staying the night with Emily. It seemed that Rossi had read his feelings long before he himself had even acknowledged them.

He sat down at Emily's kitchen table just as she finished cooking the food. "Rossi agrees with me," he commented conversationally as he took his first bite of the eggs she had given him. "This is really good."

"Of course he does," Emily replied, unable to keep an affectionate smile off her face. "He's a man, too. And don't expect a repeat performance of this." She gestured at the food in front of them. "I can't make anything other than breakfast."

"That's fine," he returned with a grin, "seeing as I can cook anything _but_ breakfast."

She smiled back. "Well, then, I guess that just means that this will all turn out perfectly."

He locked eyes with her at that; she met his gaze almost defiantly, as if daring him to contradict her. He didn't, though; he wouldn't have dared. He just reached out and covered her hand with his. "I guess so."

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The trip to the hospital was uneventful. When they got there, though, Emily stopped just outside the doors.

"I just realized how this is going to look," she said in response to his inquiring look. "I mean, I'm an FBI agent. I should have gotten completely looked over at the scene."

He had taken her hand instinctively when they'd gotten out of his car, and now he squeezed it gently. "It'll be fine," he reassured her. "I've got an idea of what to say. Just let me take care of it."

She smiled and nodded. As they walked through the automatic doors, he felt a swell of…something in his chest that she trusted his word so implicitly. He led her to the reception counter and outlined the basics of what had happened to the woman behind it.

As he got closer to the reason they had taken so long to come in, he felt Emily's hand tighten spasmodically around his. He stroked his thumb along the back of her hand in an effort to calm her, and felt her settle almost immediately beneath his touch. "Neither of us realized how badly she had been hurt until this morning," he told the nurse, "and we both though it'd be a good idea to make sure there was no lasting damage."

The nurse nodded. "That was probably the best idea," she said, "and you're in luck; the clinic isn't very busy today." She managed to get them into an appointment slot half an hour later and, after taking down Emily's information, directed them to the appropriate waiting room.

They spent the intermittent period talking about nothing. When Emily's name was called and she got up, he let go of her hand for the first time. She looked back at him curiously, and reached to pick his hand up again. "Come with me?" she asked.

He got up, feeling ridiculously happy that she wanted him with her.

The check was quick and easy, and as Emily lay on the examining table, her shirt once more pulled up and the doctor running the ultrasound wand over her abdomen, he found himself longing for nightfall and a shooting star to wish on, to wish that they were there for a better, happier purpose. He tried to fight the mental image of Emily, his beautiful Emily, her hair curled like she used to wear it, her eyes sparkling with laughter, her stomach swollen with their child, but when he met her eyes, he was hit with the feeling that she was thinking about the same thing.

"No internal bleeding," the doctor said, smiling as she put away the ultrasound equipment, clearly oblivious to the silent sharing of a daydream that had gone on under her nose. "I know you said that you know you don't have a broken rib, but I want to schedule you for an X-ray, just to be sure that a fracture isn't hiding under the bruises' pain. If I can fit you in, do you think you could do it today?"

"No problem," Emily replied, sitting up and pulling down her shirt. "The sooner, the better, really."

The doctor smiled again and left.

Emily swung her legs off the exam table, but remained sitting on it. She met his eyes and smiled, as if the mere sight of him made her painfully happy. If it did, he knew the feeling. She swung her feet slightly, kicking out like a child on a high seat, and she was so incredibly adorable that he just wanted to laugh and hold her tightly and kiss her senseless, all at once. He satisfied himself by walking over to her and gently pressing his lips to hers.

"Mm, Hotch," she sighed happily against his mouth.

He pulled back. "Aaron," he said quietly. "I want you to call me Aaron."

"Keep kissing me like that and I'll call you whatever the hell you want," she told him.

He couldn't stop himself from laughing this time, even as she said, "Aaron," very sternly, grabbed his tie, and pulled him in to continue the kiss he had interrupted.

**~To Be Continued in "Claim"~**

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A/N2: And that's it for this one! I mentioned in the very first Author's Notes that this would be part of a series of episode re-writes flowing from the alternate universe started here (alternate universe? Whaaaaaat? This is _totally_ canon). Now, here's the plan: Muses willing, I will post four more oneshots, one a week, and then another little multi-chaptered fic, roughly the same length as this one, to finish out season four. Then there will be a pause while I finish watching Angel (finally) and locate Criminal Minds season 5 on DVD. All bets are off after that, but I'm pretty sure that the entirety of the Foyet arc that is in season five will be one fic. There may also be oneshots to supplement it, but, like I said, who the hell knows.

Now, I'm planning on keeping this pretty close to canon for the most part, but then right at the beginning of season six A Thing is going to happen and you may or may not end up hating me, depending on how I decide to let it play out.

ANYWAY, like I said, that's all for "Realize," keep your eyes open for the next one, and soldier on, my ducklings.

(Yes, you are now officially my ducklings. If I ever become famous, that is what I will call my fans.)


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